


Suppose you threw a love affair and nobody came?

by Evenlodes_Friend



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Friday Quickfic, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, a boozey evening, drunk, existential flu, frienship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:31:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenlodes_Friend/pseuds/Evenlodes_Friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There has been far too much drink, and navel gazing.  Then James asks a philosophical question that opens up a whole new aspect of their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suppose you threw a love affair and nobody came?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callicat49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callicat49/gifts).



> The title is a quote from Lorrie Moore’s peerless short story, ‘How to become a writer’, first published in the 1985 collection ‘Self Help’, and now on its own as an individual Faber Modern Classic.
> 
> A Friday Quick Fic, meant for fun, and for Lee, because she was nice to me when I needed it.
> 
> Also, please excuse the erratic formatting, It doesn't seem to matter what I try, it still pings all over the place. Sorry.
> 
> Regarding comments, am feeling very vulnerable after some trolling, so please be constructive. Thank you.

 

            Maybe its just that he’s drunk. Or that James is drunk. Even so, that sentence makes no sense at all.

            ‘Come again?’ he says, squinting, trying to sharpen the blurring image of his blonde sergeant sitting on his sofa beside him, with his fourth (large) glass of Merlot in his long-fingered, bony hand.

            ‘I _said_ ,’ James repeats with slightly slurred emphasis. ‘What if you threw a love affair and nobody came? Like throwing a party? That’s my life. That’s exactly how my life has been.’

            ‘Is this that exist -, exist-, existential flu thing you’re always on about?’ Lewis frowns, because existential is a long word when you are sober, never mind four glasses to the wind. ‘Coz, frankly, man, that doesn’t make much sense.’

            ‘I’m a disaster,’ James goes on, regardless, and takes another sip of wine. Lewis tries not to allow himself to linger on the slick of ruby left on the lad’s perfectly sculpted lower lip. And fails.

            ‘ ‘sa cliché,’ he observes.

            ‘That I’m a disaster?’

            ‘Nah, the wine thing.’ He still can’t stop looking.

            ‘That’s a non sequitur, sir. With all, all, due respect.’ Then James frowns. ‘What wine thing?’

            Lewis points an unsteady finger at his own mouth, to demonstrate.

            ‘Lips,’ he says.

            James peers at Lewis’s mouth. ‘What about them?’

            ‘Not mine. Yours.’

            ‘Mine?’

            ‘Yeah. ‘s wine.’

            ‘Oh.’ James appears to be attempting to look at his own mouth. He goes a bit cross-eyed trying to manage it. Then he runs his tongue along his bottom lip.

            No. No, that’s not good. That really is _not_ good.

            ‘Gone?’ He asks Lewis, who can only realise he is staring, and shrug, and look away.

He is glad he is drunk. Must be flushed already. Glad James won’t notice a bit more pink in already pink cheeks. Bloody cheeks anyway. Always pink these days. Laura says its broken capillaries. Lynn says its too much beer.

            James slumps lower down on the sofa, balances the foot of his glass on his sternum. His shirt has ridden up. The buttons are pulling. Lewis can see smooth, golden skin through the gaps under the placket.

            ‘’m a disaster,’ James repeats, miserably.

            ‘No, you’re not.’

            ‘Nobody loves me.’

            ‘I love you.’

            ‘Do you?’

            ‘Course.’

            ‘You’re drunk.’

            ‘Maybe. Anyway, ‘s true.’

            ‘Yes, but that’s friends. Friends don’t count.’

            ‘How do you know its just friends? You never asked.’ The words are out before he knows it, racing like cheetahs across the savannah.

            James looks at him over the rim of his glass, owlish. His eyelids are heavy. Lewis could just lean forward. Lean forward and-

            ‘Wouldn’t do that to you, sir,’ James says. ‘Put you on the spot. Not on, is it?’

            Lewis sinks back into the sofa beside him, both their heads back, necks cradled by the cushions. They stare at the ceiling.

            ‘What if somebody _did_ come to the party, and you didn’t notice, coz it was me?’

            ‘What party?’

            ‘This love affair thingy you’re on about throwing.’

            ‘Oh.’ James considers this. ‘Hidden in plain sight, you mean?’

            ‘Can’t say anything, can I? Sexual harassment at work, and all that. Ethics. You’re me sergeant, after all.’ He shrugs, resigned to his position.

            ‘ _I_ couldn’t say anything either,’ James agrees. ‘I’d be sleeping my way to the top, wouldn’t I? If I did?’

            ‘I’m hardly your best target if you were,’ Lewis chuckles. ‘Better seduce Peterson if that’s your game.’

            James shudders, and gives a comic grimace.

‘Not even in jest, sir,’ he grins.

‘Just sayin’,’ Lewis points out. ‘Maybe your party isn’t as empty as you thought.’

James looks up at him, blue-eyed and a bit squiffy.

‘I’m glad about that,’ he says.


End file.
